


Cor Cordium

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Endgame Motherfuckers, F/M, Freeform, Jonerys Secret Santa 2018, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Cor Cordium (Latin): Heart of HeartsScenes from Season 8, in which Daenerys kisses Jon Snow because she can.





	Cor Cordium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MostTulip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostTulip/gifts).



> I'm an early or extremely late sort of person, and while I have been making Santa preparations at the Lights' Household I knew this was sneaking up on me, so here it is, Liz! Merry Christmas from your friendly neighborhood Soft Bitch Santa, and if Season 8 does not deliver the kisses that were promised I hope this helps alleviate the sting.
> 
> (And for all you other softies out there I've got more updates to come, just in time for the holidays! But have you been impish, or admirable?)

She kisses him, right there in the open, right in front of everyone in their party, just before they reach the gates of Winterfell.

She does it because she can, because he is so full of nervous excitement that he has been unable to tear his eyes away from her.  He is so eager to see her every reaction, beaming at her awed gasp at the sprawling Keep that lay before them, and kissing him squarely on the lips, her hand tugging at his collar to pull his mouth to hers, seems the only logical course of action.

He smiles at her, a wistful, sweet turn of his lips that is at such odds with the warrior she knows him to be.

Jon Snow is many things; this is something she has learned, over the course of sweaty, exhausting nights aboard her ship.

He is a man who gives everything that he has when committed to his cause, and his cause has seemingly become pleasuring her as surely as he can before the world ends.

Hands that have mapped every inch of her body tangle with hers now as she releases him, and his voice is hoarse, whipped about in the wind as he whispers to her, “Are you ready?”

She smiles, bringing one hand to her lips, kissing his gloved knuckles before she nods her assent.

“Show me your home, Jon Snow.”

The words are on her lips, just then, dancing on the tip of her tongue.

The words that have hung between them, dangerous words, words that lay bare their weakness; She knows she does not need to say it, as he gazes down at her.

She does not need to tell him she loves him.

He need not declare it.

Love must wait, but it is there, all the same.

\----------------

She kisses him, shielded from Northern eyes by the great head of Jon Snow’s Direwolf, there in the courtyard of Winterfell.

It is a quick press of her lips upon his, but she puts force behind it so that he will know, so that he will understand.

She knows now why he called her dragons what he did, that day on the cliffs when Drogon had allowed his touch, when he had intrigued her in ways that made her nervous, down in the pit of her stomach when she recalled it.

When she sees the Direwolf named Ghost, she sees him for what he is: a gorgeous beast, magic made flesh, just as her dragons are.

When he allows her touch, her hand shaking slightly at the sight of sharp white teeth, she feels the air escape her in one swift exhalation.  She is consumed with wonder as she stares at those ruby red eyes, her hand sifting through snowy fur before she turns to look upon the King in the North.

There is such love in his eyes, just then, that she cannot help but kiss him.

She does not care who witnesses the act.

She is not ashamed.

She loves a King with magic in his blood, and he returns that love.  It is all there, in his eyes.

“You should have brought him with you, Jon Snow.”  She whispers the words against his lips, each syllable mingling her breath with his, steaming the air around them.

“He doesn’t like boats.”  He wrinkles his nose at her, and she peers up at him, grinning quickly and pulling back, knowing they must face all those who surround them now.

But for a heartbeat, one frozen, crystalline second in time, there is no one else but him, flakes of snow dusting his hair, his eyes warm and soft on hers, and her heart is fuller than it has ever been.

\--------------

She kisses him, one tender, gentle press, down in the chill of the crypts.

They are bundled in furs now, even Daenerys, as she stands before the statue of the girl her brother loved above all others, the wolf maid who’d birthed the King to her right.  His eyes shine with unshed tears, his breathing ragged and uneven.

His sisters simply stare for a moment, as Brandon Stark utters words that change everything and nothing all at once.

Jon Snow looks at them all, mutely, before turning his gaze to hers, and she cannot recall seeing him more terrified than he is right now.  He is afraid of her, she realizes, afraid that he will lose more than just his identity at this revelation, and her hand is blindly grasping for his in the dark, cold shadows between them.

“Leave us.”  He does not let go of her hand, and she knows this order is not for her.  Faces move past her, but she does not care to look at them.

There is only him.

Him, and her, surrounded by ghosts that haunt them still.

Jon breaks his stare, his chin lifting as he gazes at the face of his mother, and she sees the boy he was, the motherless bastard of Winterfell.  She knows of the loneliness of his childhood; there has been no room for secrets between them, no room at all for anything but the sweat that slicks their skin as they take and give to each other, their bodies saying all they cannot speak aloud.

“What a bloody fuckin’ mess.”  He shakes his head and tosses his hands up in exasperation, eyes darting everywhere before finally meeting hers.

She kisses him because he seems so alone, in that moment, the weight of everything bearing down upon him impossibly.  But he is not alone, he has her now, and she will never leave him.

They are bound together, there is no doubt in her mind.  Blood and love weave and intermingle in the space between them, relief coursing through her at the realization that this pull to him was never meant to be resisted.

If there were Gods, she thinks, then they have crafted the pair of them to fit together.

She kisses him and he sags in relief, and he says the words they have left neglected, there before his mother’s bones.

“I love you, Dany.  That’s all I know.  That’s all I need to know.”  He pulls back, eyes ringed by shadow, candlelight flickering across his face.  He looks like a God, she thinks.  She knows what his wildlings whisper about him, she has heard the tale from him herself.

“I’m yours, Jon Snow.”

No one has ever looked at her like he does.

No one ever could.

He is the only truth that matters, in the face of the almost-certain death bearing down on them, drawing closer by the day.

“Marry me.”  His eyes grow wide at her whisper, but even she does not know if it is a request or a command. 

There is a beat of fear, then another, but then he smiles.

It is so lovely she cannot breathe for a second, lightheaded and cold and hot all at once, stifled even as a chilled breeze sweeps through the crypt.

“Yes.”  His jaw is tight with emotion, his eyes growing bright in the sparse light, his hands grasping her wrists tightly and bringing her fingers to his lips.

He kisses each knuckle and whispers once more.  “Tonight.”

\----------------

She kisses him, there in his Godswood, before his Old Gods, because they have sworn their oaths, and now she is his wife.

She knows his sisters do not yet trust her fully, but they smile at their brother and clap, and she believes they are happy for him.

She wishes there was time enough to know them, because she finds them equally intriguing.  She does not underestimate either of them.

His people call out in celebration as they walk down the torchlit path, back to the ancient Keep, to the wedding feast that awaits them.

Her husband is as blind to their surroundings as she is; it is clear in the way his eyes track her every move that he sees nothing but her, and she thinks she has never wanted him more than she does right now.

She leans in, close, her lips grazing his earlobe.  “I was told there would be a bedding.”  Her voice is low and husky with desire, and she makes no effort to hide it anymore.

She kisses him because he is hers, now, for as long as is left to them.

She kisses him just because she can, on the beating pulse in his neck, leaning away to peer at his reaction.

Jon looks at her with fire in his eyes, and she does not remember ever seeing a man so beautiful.

“We’re meant to have a feast first, Your Grace.”  He begins to walk again, muttering to her as she grasps tightly to his arm, pressing herself against him.

“Hang the feast.”  Her hissed reply makes him chuckle, and he ducks his head, studying his boots for a moment.

“Yes.” A tiny grin surfaces, a devious gleam in his eyes.  “Hang the feast.”  He mutters the words to her and nods decisively, and then stops, gesturing Davos close.  “Send two plates to my chambers.  Knock and leave them.” 

The King’s Hand has a knowing twinkle in his eye as he gives a dip of his chin in assent and she does not care.  He is her husband, and she loves him, and she hungers more for the press of his body against her than for any meal.  She thinks that they both wish to make the most of the time they have left, to live while they still can.

Then she does not think at all, because the King she has just married scoops into his arms like a babe.  She knows this is part of the ceremony, that now he is to carry her to the Great Hall, but he turns, suddenly, making for the sleeping quarters housed further in the Keep.

She can only giggle helplessly when Tyrion calls out, “But the feast!  Your Graces!”, because Jon Snow does not falter, gaining speed as he replies.

“No time for that, my Lord.  We’ve got a bedding to attend to.”  The reaction to his rasping response is lost on her, because she is drunk on this, on a silly little moment that means nothing and everything, and she knows only a deep and burning want.

\---------------

She kisses him, a reassurance in the cold morning air, standing with him amongst her dragons.

Brandon Stark believes that Jon Snow must ride Rhaegal, and she agrees.

It is all too impossible, these circumstances they find themselves in.  It all fits together too neatly to be anything but fate, for what little she believes in it.

But she knows that they are the last of their near-dead House.  And here, surrounding the King and Queen on either side, crowding for closeness with their heated, scaly skin, are the last two dragons in all existence.  They have a war to win, and a people to save.

She kisses him, urgently, because a part of her never thought she would share this with another.

She feels whole, complete in a way she does not really understand, when Rhaegal lowers his wing, waiting patiently while Jon clambers up to mount him.

And when they have lifted into the air, she with a cry of joy, he with alarmed excitement, she feels reborn.

When they lift above the low-hanging clouds, the sun still blazing with pink and gold as it sets to their west, she thinks in that moment they are conquerors reborn, the blood of Old Valyria made new again.

As they are gliding, coasting on a current, their dragons flying side by side, she thinks that in this moment, she is free.

\--------------

She kisses him because she knows this may be the last, but she swears to herself that will not be the case.  They are departing together but they are bound for different destinations.  They are risking everything for the chance to take the Night King by surprise.

After all, the monster knows that she rides a dragon, and he has taken one for himself.

He will not expect her King.

The Night King has stolen Viserion from her, and she will take back what is hers, before he kills them all.

She kisses Jon Snow with all the love in her heart, because they are the last of their kind, and if she and her King fall, if their dragons fall, then all is lost.

He pulls back from her, panting, his breath escaping in ragged gasps, his eyes hard and determined.  “This isn’t the end, Dany.  It’s not.”

She kisses him though she cannot see his face, her eyes blurred and hot with tears that escape before she can compose herself.  There is a secret that she carries inside her, now, a secret she has shared with him.

In the tiny spark of life within her there is a hope that did not exist before, for both of them.

She nods, sniffling, wiping away her tears with gloved hands before doing the same to him.

“I am not done with you, my King.  Not by half.”

Jon smiles at her, indulgently, tangling his hands with hers and tugging her close.  “Come back to me.”  Now he kisses her, because he can, because he cannot often find the words for what he truly feels, but he knows she understands his kiss.

“I will.”  It is a promise, a pledge, and he puts one hand on her abdomen as she swears it, caresses the slight swell that has only just sprung forth, that no one knows of save them and Samwell Tarly.

Then the bells are ringing, and war is upon them, and she kisses his fingertips and leaves him, climbs atop her dragon and flies off to make war.

\-------------

She kisses him, and the salt she tastes could be tears, or blood, but she does not care.

They are broken and battered, and sick with grief and loss and horror, but they are alive.

They are together, and she kisses him soundly, cradling him close against her, feeling shudders crawl along his body as he rocks her slowly.

She kisses every spare inch of skin that she can find, though she is covered in ash and soot and things far more terrible, because she grows heavier with his child by the day, and though the sun still does not shine she believes the worst of their wars are concluded.

The Night King is dead, and he will not rise again, and now is the time to live.

Daenerys kisses him once more before they stand, together, rising to greet those who survive in the wreckage of war that surrounds them, because they have been harbingers of war, together.  Now, she thinks, they will try to bring peace.

She vows that they will leave their heir a world worth fighting for.

\-------------

She kisses him, quickly, before her eyes slam shut, before the pain is upon her once more.

He is beside her, they are together, and soon their babe will be born.

She is afraid and overjoyed, teetering between gladness and terror, but he remains.  He holds her hand tightly in his, wincing with each moan she releases.

Daenerys looks to her right, where darkness persists through the open window.  It has been dark for many moons, but they have lit every brazier in the Keep, every taper that can catch is lit, and in the flickering light Jon’s sister Sansa leans over, wiping the sweat from her brow with a cool cloth.

Missandei has taken her post at the foot of the bed, encouraging and ever-present, Samwell and his wife Gilly tending and watching as the Queen labors.

The pain comes sharper, now, and she squeezes Jon’s hand with such strength that he gives a pained laugh.  “Next one’s like to break a bone or two.”

She tries to laugh but pain steals her voice, and her lips are frozen in a silent scream as more pain than she has felt in recent memory wraps itself around her.  Voices whisper below her, and sweet Sansa takes her other hand, despite Jon’s warning of the Queen’s grip.

“It’s time, Your Grace.”  Sansa laces her fingers through Dany’s, and before she can stop herself Daenerys turns to her husband, tugging him to her and kissing him once more.

His mother died in this act, just as her own did, and if her death must pay for her babe’s life she will know his taste upon her lips one last time.

And then, there is only the overwhelming urge to push.

Voices call out to her, but she cannot hear them over the searing pain that lances like hot fire through her body, and she can only push through it all, fighting through the agony because she is a dragon, and pain has long been a friend of hers.

She does not know if it is minutes or hours or days, because there is only night now, no daylight to mark the passage of time, but she gives one last, final push and everything stops.

Time stretches and slows like sticky molasses, and she feels her babe pulled free of her body, relief making her sag onto the mattress under her back.

Her heart beats once, then twice, and everything is silent.  The world, she thinks, waits with them, for one excruciating second after another, and then many things happen at once, and in rapid succession.

In the dark, candlelit room, cast in sharp and shifting shadows, her babe finally cries.  A loud, ringing wail that slices through the silence, that shatters it into thousands of tiny shards that she imagines she can feel scraping against her skin.

Then they are blinded, all of them, because as if in answer to her babe’s command the sun returns, swiftly and suddenly, the room blazing with a midday brightness that burns their eyes.

It has been so long in the darkness that it takes them all several more seconds to realize what has happened, hands shielding brows against the intrusion as their eyes adjust to a new reality.

She kisses him as he sits abed with her, his arm slung around her shoulders and holding her close, their babe snuffling and rooting against her chest before latching on to her bared breast.

She kisses him because she holds a son in her arms, his son.  Her entire world rests within the span of her arms, and he has made her feel alive in ways she dared not hope for.

He pulls away, his hand coming to cover hers where it cradles the tiny Prince’s head, his eyes never straying from his son’s small, sweet face.

“Sound the bells, Sam.”  She gives him a soft smile as he speaks, peace flooding every inch of her, and she leans her head against his shoulder as he continues, his deep voice rumbling against her cheek.

“Tell the people their Prince has been born this day.  Tell them he brings the Dawn with him.”

She kisses him because she has learned that she can love more deeply than she thought possible.  Now her heart makes room for another, a tiny little babe with hair dark as a raven’s wing, and needs no more to know that she is home.


End file.
